


non-zero sum

by Sibilant



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The formation of an alliance between (former) enemies is often slow and fraught with setbacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	non-zero sum

**Author's Note:**

> Happy third TDKR anniversary, everyone!

**0**

 

It’s five weeks into the occupation of Gotham when it starts to snow.

Things are fine - at first.

John’s been preparing for it, along with Father Reilly. They scour St. Swithin’s for every blanket, comforter, throw, coverlet, quilt - even towels - that they can find. They make sure the kids and everyone else sheltering with them aren’t going to freeze to death, when the power starts to fail.

(John starts scavenging for newspapers and stockpiling them, in case things get really desperate.)

Even so, people start getting sick.

It’s mostly sniffles, coughs, and colds. Kids and adults alike get over them by staying as warm, hydrated, and hygienic as circumstances allow. Still, there are just _too many_ of them crammed into the group home. So, while it’s mostly just sniffles, coughs, and colds, not all of them are.

And when the first set of kids come down with body-trembling, skin-scalding fever - something far worse than just a cold - John thinks: _fuck this._

Fuck everything about this. They have nothing. St. Swithin’s had been broken into weeks ago, while most of the adults were out, and their paltry first aid kit had been one of the things taken. But John can’t just sit around and watch as more kids come close to dying from fever - fucking fever, of all things.He can’t. He won’t.

So John goes to collect Tim, because he needs an accomplice for this - someone small, and Tim is clever-sharp besides - and sets off into the night.

_(He doesn’t know this is going to change things.)_

 

* * *

 

**1**

 

“Batman’s not gonna come and save us, is he?”

John pauses in prying the security screen off. It’s not a smart idea, stopping right now, but Tim had sounded so bleak, close to defeated, and that’s not like him at all.

It’s just another reason to hate Bane and his gang of psychopathic murderers. They’re strangling the life out of Gotham, even when they're not forcing people over the ice or gunning them down.

Tim seems to take his silence as agreement, and his shoulders slump. John stares at him, helpless. He wants to say something reassuring, but what the fuck can he say?

Frustrated, John turns back to the window. He can’t afford to take any longer; it’s dangerous, what he— what _they_ are doing. This part of the city, so close to city hall, is Bane’s territory. Getting caught here, when they’re clearly not Bane’s men, is pretty much certain death.

But it’s also the only part of the city with medical supplies stocked up.

John pries the security screen off with careful, almost painful slowness. Jimmying the window open is much faster work.

“Batman will come,” he says, with more certainty than he feels. “But it doesn’t matter, in the end, if he does or doesn’t. We need to take Gotham back on our own.” His confidence solidifies a little more. “If we’re gonna have any hope of making things better after this is over, _we’re_ the ones who have to do it. Batman’s not _supposed_ to save us. We need to save ourselves.”

“That’s not what you used to say,” Tim says. But he’s looking up at John now, rather than staring at the ground.

“Yeah, well…” John shrugs. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”

He glances around to make sure the coast is clear, then bends down and laces his fingers together, forming a stirrup for Tim to put his foot in. John boosts Tim through the window, then turns around to stand guard.

_(He doesn’t realise there are people listening from the rooftop above. And he’ll never know about the raised hand that stays his execution.)_

 

* * *

 

**2**

 

Two weeks after John and Tim’s successful supply raid, a cargo box arrives at the steps of St. Swithin’s.

It’s delivered by two unsmiling, gun-toting men.

John pushes his way past Father Reilly, who’s standing in the doorway, frozen. Behind the two gunmen, parked in the middle of the road, John spots one of those urban tanks. It’s one of Batman’s - John recognises that shape, and his anger stokes higher. Bane is taking everything that should be righteous, everything that should be _good_ \- the police force, the people of Gotham, even Batman - and twisting them, ruining them.

“What do you want?” John asks the gunmen, his tone not-quite belligerent.

But before either of the gunmen can speak, the tank hatch opens—

And Bane rises up from within.

John’s breath catches in his throat, horrified.

Bane climbs out of the tank easily, with insane grace for a man of his size. He walks - more like _strolls_ \- past his men, right up to John.

And although John is suspicious - although he has an anger burning in him like he hasn’t had since his parents died - he still takes an involuntary step back. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Bane in person; the news broadcasts hadn’t done him justice. They hadn’t been able to convey how intimidatingly huge Bane is in person. They hadn’t been able to convey the sharp, frightening intelligence in his eyes.

John locks his knees and stiffens his spine. Stops himself from stepping back any further.

“What’s this?” He asks Bane, pointing at the box.

Bane eyes him silently for a moment. “Medical supplies,” he says eventually, the syllables strange and distorted through the mask. “Rations.”

John’s brow furrows. “And you’re… what? Just giving these to us?” He can’t keep the sarcasm out when he adds, “Out of the goodness of your heart?”

A flicker of expression in Bane’s eyes that might be amusement. “You seemed in need of them,” he replies. “Any man that would dare to steal from our stores is either desperate or foolish in the extreme.”

“Or both,” John says under his breath, unthinking.

Bane huffs out a laugh. The sound grates on John’s nerves, sets him further on edge.

“What’re you getting out of this?” He demands. “What do you expect to get?”

“I am giving you and yours hope.”

 _Hope?_ Is the son of a bitch being sarcastic? John has no idea, but he glares anyway. “How do I know you’re not just giving us a box of poison?”

“Every item in that box is still in its original packaging - completely untampered with. Look inside. See for yourself.”

John doesn’t move. There’s no way he’s turning his back on Bane.

Bane tilts his head. “Take the supplies, or do not,” he says, after a pause. “Either way, it will not be me who suffers.”

John scowls, caught between the principles he’d learned at the academy and the practicality that he’d learned on the street.

In the end, practicality wins.

John steps back. He nods at Father Reilly and a few other adults who’ve come to the door to watch. “It’s fine,” John says. “Let’s take it inside.”

_(John turns away then, and so he doesn’t see the satisfied smile in Bane’s eyes. And he’ll never know that his defiance reminds Bane of someone else - someone beloved beyond measure.)_

 

* * *

 

**3**

 

It’s been five months since Batman returned to Gotham - since Batman _saved_ Gotham - and John’s just starting to get used to his new role.

The learning curve is steep, difficult, and full of pain. He’s always nursing some new bruise, some new ache. Every night, he throws himself into the fray and accumulates more.

He pays for it, eventually.

John hits the ground hard, face-down. His cheek scrapes against something rough and jagged. He can taste dirt and grit on his tongue.

“That’s gotta hurt,” he hears from somewhere above him. Unmistakable click of a folding knife flicking open. “Won’t hurt for long, though.”

 _Fuck,_ John thinks. _Fuck fuck fuck—_

He braces his forearm against the ground; manages to lever himself up and roll away. Harsh scrape of a blade against concrete, barely audible over the pound of John’s heartbeat in his ears, and John scrabbles for secure footing—

There’s a yelp, abruptly cut off. Hard thump, and sick little choking sound that turns John’s stomach. He raises his head cautiously. Freezes almost immediately, because standing less than five feet away from him, backlit by sodium-yellow streetlights, is _Bane_.

 _That’s impossible,_ John thinks. Then: _they never recovered his body, though._

He blinks. Shakes his head, just in case it’s somehow possible to dislodge a hallucination. Nothing changes. The alley is still dark and grimy, his former opponent is still collapsed a few feet away, and Bane is still standing before him. He doesn't move toward John, but he doesn't back away either. He just… stands there. Watching.

John gets to his feet slowly, eyes flicking back and forth between Bane and the unconscious man behind him. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” Bane says, although he doesn’t turn to check.

John’s cheekbone stings. He wipes at it, unthinking, and his glove comes away streaked with blood. He stares at it, then up at Bane, stomach roiling. “Are you going to kill me?”

Bane tilts his head. “Do you wish for that?”

“What?” John says, jerking back. “ _No—_ ”

“If death _is_ what you wish for, I can grant it,” Bane continues, tone unfailingly polite. “Much more swiftly than your former assailant.” He takes a step forward.

John backs up automatically, and instantly hates himself for it. “ _No,_ I don’t want to fucking die.” His voice croaks on the last word, and he rubs his throat, glaring at Bane.

“Your style of combat says otherwise,” Bane says, ignoring John’s glare. “You fight like a man who seeks death. Recklessly, with no consideration for your safety or physical limitations.”

“What is this, a performance review? Why are you—” John stops. “Have you been _watching_ me?”

Bane inclines his head - _yes_.

“ _For how long?_ ”

“Long enough to know that you are too reckless to survive much longer.” Bane looks John over, eyes clinical and assessing. “If you are Bruce Wayne’s successor, you are a poor one,” he says finally.

John rears back, pride stung. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Eloquent,” Bane says. John can’t tell if there’s irritation or amusement in his expression. “If you insist upon continuing, you require more training. Better training. Guidance.”

“ _Guidance?_ ” John raises his eyebrows. “And you’re— what, offering to train me? _You_?”

“As your predecessor once learned from the League, so shall you.”

John raises his hands, like he can push the sheer ridiculousness of that idea away. “You’re saying _Bruce Wayne_ trained with you? With your League? The guy who sacrificed himself to save this city—” because like hell he’s letting Bane know Bruce is still alive, “—trained with the people who were going to blow us all to kingdom come? That’s what you’re saying?”

“It is.”

“You seriously expect me to believe that?”

“Believe it, or do not,” Bane says. “The truth does not require your belief to be true.”

John eyes him. _This is a mind game,_ he thinks. It must be. But if it is, what’s Bane after? “So what if it’s the truth?” He says cautiously. “Why would that make you want to help me?”

Bane takes a breath. It’s louder than John remembers from the propaganda speeches Bane used to give on TV, alternately enflaming and terrifying the people of Gotham. In the sickly light of the streetlamps, Bane looks... ill. Even so, his eyes are still sharp, pinning John in place while he seemingly contemplates his next move.

“Wayne was once a part of our organisation,” Bane says finally. “He was part of a legacy, whether he wished to be or not. And now that he’s passed the mantle of his crusade onto you, you are all that remains of that legacy.”

John takes a minute to process that. Then another. “So you’ve decided, based on some messed up logic, that I’m all that’s left of your little terrorist society, so you’re going to make sure I’m— what? Worthy of being Batman?”

Bane shifts his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug and watches John through narrowed eyes. In conjunction with the mask, it makes him look alien, predatory, and John can’t help the stab of fear that shoots down his spine.

 _This is Bane,_ he tells himself. The man who was responsible, directly or indirectly, for the deaths of hundreds of people. John would have to be an idiot _not_ to be afraid of him. But— “I’d have to be a goddamn idiot to help from _you_.”

“You will be an even bigger fool if you refuse,” Bane counters, staring John down. “You have no one else who can aid you in this. Do you?”

John opens his mouth, then shuts it with a snap. It’s true. He doesn’t have anyone else.

John looks away.

That doesn’t stop him from missing Bane’s quiet, triumphant _humph,_ however, and the noise strikes like flint and steel across John’s nerves. It ignites the anger that’s always lurking beneath his skin, and his eyes snap back to Bane.

“You know what?” John says, faux-lightly. “You’re right. I don’t have anyone else. And you probably could help me. But I think you need me as much as I need you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” John says. He tilts his chin up. “It is. Because you don’t have anyone else either, do you?”

Cold, frozen silence from Bane.

“Right,” John says. He smirks meanly. “So don’t give me that bull about how you’re making sure I’m ‘worthy of my mantle’—” he layers the words with all the dripping sarcasm he can muster, “— and don’t act like you’re doing me a favour. You’re doing this for you. You’re trying to scrape together a little bit of control by dangling your ‘assistance’ over my head.” He smirks meanly. “I mean, God— it must just kill you, huh? You used to be in control. You used to be charge, you used to have followers, and now you have _nothing_ —”

Bane lunges at him.

He clears the distance between them in less than a second, and John has no time to dodge before Bane closes one hand his shoulder, the other around his throat. He hoists John into the air, slams him against the alley wall. The air punches out of John’s lungs. He hangs there, stunned, unable to move away as Bane leans in. The cold metal of Bane’s mask presses against the gash on his cheekbone, and John hisses.

“Believe what you wish,” Bane says, voice frigid. “Concoct as many stories about my motives as you desire, if it assuages your misguided guilt over accepting my assistance. But understand that I am your only option for survival.”

John turns his head so he can meet Bane’s eyes. From this distance, Bane’s eyes aren’t blank and expressionless at all. John can read cold fury in those grey eyes, alongside granite-hard determination. And, beneath it all, a raw, wild grief that makes John want to turn away, ashamed to witness something so clearly personal.

If it were anyone else, John would pity them. But this is Bane. John has attended more memorial services than he cares to count because of this man. The city John loves is in ruins; there are people who’ve been left scarred, physically and mentally, and whole families have been shattered. All because of Bane. Pitying him would be a gross betrayal of every person who’d suffered or died during the occupation.

John wraps that last thought around himself like plate armour. “Fine,” he says, matching Bane glare for glare. “Now let me go.”

Bane lets go.

He dumps John on the ground unceremoniously and turns away, stalking toward the alley exit without a backward glance. John watches him go. He takes a moment to check on his former attacker - still unconscious, but breathing steadily; Bane hadn’t been lying about that, at least - then clambers up a nearby fire escape ladder.

He still has a patrol to finish.

_(He keeps an eye out, but he doesn’t notice anyone following him for the rest of the night. He never knows that Bane returns to the alley, and he never knows about the body that gets tossed into Gotham River.)_

 

* * *

 

**4**

 

It’s been a month since that encounter in the alley, and John still hates Bane with a near-sickening ferocity.

How could he not?

Gotham is a minefield of reminders of how Bane had tried to destroy Gotham, and of how close he’d come to achieving it. The city skyline is dotted with construction cranes; Father Reilly says the Wayne home is filled to capacity; the banks of Gotham River are lined with flowers, mementos, and letters, and likely will be for years to come. It all ensures that John won’t ever forget, and he doesn’t know if he has it in him to forgive. Forgiveness takes a certain type of strength, and it’s one that’s always eluded John.

Bane doesn’t help. He shows no regret, isn’t remorseful in the slightest. Whenever they have reason to pass by the river, his eyes slide over the mementos like they aren’t even there.

John tries, every now and then, to provoke a reaction. When Bane calls for a break in sparring, John immediately heads for the nearest vantage point - a rooftop ledge, a balcony - and sits down, using the position to point out reconstruction efforts to Bane. Other times, he tells Bane about the kids at the Wayne Foundation home, or talks about his former colleagues’ efforts to combat the resurgence in crime. All the while, he searches Bane's eyes for even the tiniest scrap of guilt. Bane only ever listens with polite disinterest, waiting until John lapses into silence to turn the subject to a critique of John’s performance.

It gets to John eventually.

“I don’t know how you can fucking live with yourself,” he says one night, as he and Bane perch on a warehouse rooftop overlooking the river. “All the people you’ve killed. All the lives you’ve ruined.”

Bane says nothing. It’s his standard response whenever John tries goading him - tearing strips off Bane verbally because he can’t best him physically.

John stares hard at Bane’s profile, willing Bane to look at him. The seconds tick by, then a minute, and Bane still doesn’t move.

Disgusted, John starts to turn away. Then:

"You, of all people, should understand what it means to dedicate yourself to an ideal,” Bane says, still staring out at the city. “The sacrifice it takes to uphold something larger than yourself—”

John turns back, jaw set. “What I’ve dedicated myself to _helps_ people,” he says flatly. “What you dedicated yourself to would’ve killed millions.”

“What I dedicated myself to would have saved the world,” Bane retorts. He shakes his head, expression infuriatingly condescending, when John splutters. “Your vision extends only to the borders of this one city. You willing blind yourself to the corruption and greed that spews out from this city, into the rest of the world—”

“Bullshit,” John snaps. “I see just fine. And what I see— what I _saw_ is that you took the actions of a few corrupt people, and applied them to the entire fucking city.” He barrels on before Bane can begin to argue. “You think the people of Gotham are twisted? It’s only because _you_ pushed them to the brink. You’re the one who twisted them, until they all behaved exactly like you wanted them to. Exactly like you expected them to.” John leans in, sneering. “The people of Gotham aren’t twisted, Bane. It’s just you.”

Bane falls silent again. John sits back, satisfied, until—

“Only those who have passed through the crucible deserve survival,” Bane says. His voice is quiet, reverent. He sounds like he’s quoting scripture.

John looks at him sharply. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I pushed Gotham to the _brink_ of destruction,” Bane says. “But its people did not pass through.”

“You put us all through hell for three months and we survived. What’s that, if not ‘passing through the crucible’?” John resists the urge to make air quotes.

Bane huffs, contemptuous. “You survived. Yes. Because of the actions of one man.”

“Batman didn’t take back the city,” John retorts. “ _We_ did.”

“But who released those police officers?” Bane asks mildly. “Would you have succeeded in taking back the city if Bruce Wayne hadn’t intervened?” He smiles at John’s surprise. “I visited the tunnel site. I saw the debris. No homemade munitions did that.”

It’s John’s turn to go silent.

Bane shrugs, apparently not caring whether John answers or not. “Gotham will be tested again,” he says, and his voice is as calm as his words are ominous. He gestures toward the distant skyline of midtown Gotham. “The city is vulnerable and the vultures are circling. If the people of Gotham are to survive, they must _truly_ rise up and save themselves.”

There’s something about Bane’s tone... or maybe it's the wording that niggles at John’s memory. But—

“Well, you really helped with that,” John says, sarcastic. “I mean, what with you keeping three-quarters of the city’s cops on half-rations, and your men murdering any they could find above ground— it’s made it real easy to keep the peace. You’ve been a huge help, thanks.”

“Your police force slaughtered just as many of my men,” Bane replies evenly. He doesn’t sound bitter, but the look in his eyes is sardonic. “And I dare say your former colleagues have a better appreciation for the sanctity of freedom after their captivity. Perhaps they’ll fight harder for the citizens they’ve sworn to protect this time.”

John thinks abruptly of his former partner, Ross.

Ross, who’d shaken John’s hand, welcomed him into the fold, and called him ‘rookie’ with equal parts exasperation and affection; who’d cracked self-deprecating jokes about being the precinct’s token Asian, then laughed even harder when John squirmed, unsure if he was allowed to laugh or not; who’d clapped John on the shoulder and congratulated him on his surprise promotion, no envy or spite in his tone.

Ross, who’s been dead for six months, his wife and daughter left behind.

John had stood beside them at Ross’ funeral service, and he’d accompanied them to the public memorial, too. He’d kept his eyes lowered and his rage contained because it hadn’t been about him; it had been about Ross, about Yolanda and Tara, but _now_ —

“ _Fuck you,_ ” John says, his voice raw and throat tight. “They’ll fight harder because of what you did? You have _no idea_ what those cops were like. You have no idea how hard they worked, or why they did their jobs, or—” he sucks in a ragged breath, light headed from outrage. “Where the fuck do you get the balls to talk like you were doing us a favour?”

Bane meets John’s glare unflinchingly, and his eyes are the flat grey of an oncoming storm. “If you’re expecting repentance from me, you’ll be waiting a long time indeed.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” John spits.

“Then perhaps you should cease this line of conversation,” Bane says, abruptly light. “You will not be satisfied with any answers I have to give.” John thinks he can hear a smirk in his voice.

 _Bastard,_ John thinks.

He shoves himself to his feet, movements jerky, and stalks away. It feels like he’s giving in, like he’s just handed Bane a victory, and fury courses through him, wild and sudden. His temples throb and his skin prickles, but John’s had years of practice at suppressing the anger. He grits his teeth and keeps walking.

It’s the last time they speak of it.

John still doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t _want_ to understand anymore.

 

* * *

 

**5**

 

Two months later, hell - or Judgement Day, or the reckoning, or whatever apocalyptic metaphor Bane happens to be fond of at the moment - comes to Gotham.

John just calls it a turf war.

In reality, it’s a series of turf wars, as a new breed of gangs flood Gotham. They’re outsiders - unfamiliar with Gotham, alien to her streets, and all the more vicious for it. Where Falcone and his ilk had once woven themselves into Gotham’s very tapestry - made themselves essential to the city’s functioning - these new gangs are forcing Gotham to accommodate _them_. They don’t fear the legend of the Batman because to them it’s just that - an urban legend concocted by the weak and powerless.

John intends to teach them otherwise.

He dives unhesitatingly into battle every night, armed with Gordon’s intel, Fox’s armory, and Bane’s training. Thought it galls him to admit it, Bane’s arrival in his life has made a world of difference. John’s patrol times have been cut down by almost a third; individual fights takes less and less time, giving him more time to research and chase down paper trails. He’s nursing fewer injuries these days. And although John has long since forbidden Bane from ‘accompanying’ him—

(“This arrangement is just training - that’s _it_. I don’t want a sidekick, and I don’t want you anywhere near me when I’m patrolling, understand?”

“Understood.”)

Bane nevertheless maintains a careful surveillance on him.

John can feel the weight of Bane’s gaze, whether he’s prowling through alleyways or launching himself between buildings, though he rarely catches a glimpse of Bane. The surveillance rankles, but it also gives John a vague sense of protection. Moreover, it gives him a curious sort of reassurance: _you are not alone_.

John wishes he didn’t find it comforting, but he does, because what little social life he once had has long since faded away. His daylight hours - and all the life and human contact that go with them - are lost to sleep. By nightfall, John is masked and armoured, blood singing in his veins as the bullets streak past and the batarangs fly from his fingertips.

He’s alone, save for his meetings with Gordon, visits to Lucius Fox, and Bane’s distant overwatch.

Of the three, only Bane is constant.

Still, John’s never been one to passively accept being coddled. He hadn’t when he was a child, and he won’t now.

So at the conclusion of his patrol, John steps up onto the ledge of the brownstone, extends his cape to its full length, and drops over the edge. The night wind catches him, buoys him up, and John glides silently into the alley that Bane has been lurking in for the past half hour.

“When I said I didn’t want a sidekick, I meant it,” John says without preamble. He peers into the shadows, at the darker shadow that indicates Bane.

Bane, to his credit, doesn’t bother hiding. He steps out from the shadows, eyes and mask gleaming. “This hardly counts as active assistance.”

“I don’t care what it is, I don't want it.”

Bane tilts his head. “You’re injured,” he says after a moment, eyes trained on John’s shoulder.

John blinks and looks down - spots the dark sheen of blood against the blackness of his suit. He cranes his head and angles his arm - can just see the edge of the gash in his shoulder. It's a clean cut, but deep. John doesn’t even know when it happened. He tilts his arm a little more, fascinated.

“That will need to be stitched,” Bane says, as John continues to examine his shoulder. John’s attention snaps back to him.

“I’ll get on it when I get home,” he says brusque.

He’ll patch himself up when he gets back to the cave, actually, but in all the months he’s been training with Bane, John has yet to reveal the cave’s existence to him. Doesn’t know if he ever will, although Bane must at least suspect Bruce Wayne had _some_ kind of hideout. It’s not like John’s parking the tumbler in the garage of his apartment complex, after all.

“Stitching that wound on your own would require a considerable amount of flexibility on your part.”

John shrugs, contrary. Ignores the pulse of pain that brings on, and the fresh well of blood that trickles down his arm.

Bane shakes his head. “Do not be foolish,” he says. He advances on John.

John tenses up instinctively - drops into a slightly defensive crouch, injured arm angled away from Bane.

Bane stops, then sighs, exasperated. “If I wished to kill you, you have my assurance I would not have waited this long.”

Most likely true. However— “You waited three months to set off a bomb,” John says. “I don’t think you have any problem playing the long game when it comes to murder.”

“Very well. Then I have no desire to kill you. Does that set your mind at ease?”

 _Nothing about you sets my mind at ease,_ John starts to say, except Bane turns away from him then. When he turns back, there’s a duffel bag in his hands, loaded with supplies. Medical supplies - more than John has seen in a long, _long_ while.

“Is that—” John blinks. “Have you been carrying that stuff around _every_ night?”

“The weight is negligible.”

“That’s not what I asked.” John stares up at Bane - the biggest, freakiest, most improbable nursemaid to ever exist. Maybe John’s lost far more blood than he thought; maybe he’s actually bleeding out on a rooftop somewhere, hallucinating something fierce in his final moments. It seems like the sort of thing his fucked up subconscious would create.

Bane pulls antiseptic, a spool of surgical thread, and a needle from the confines of the duffle bag. Still stunned, John doesn’t resist when Bane guides him to sit down, nor when Bane tugs at the shoulder strap of his bodysuit and strips the sleeve away.

He does hiss, however, when the antiseptic hits his skin, stinging and burning. “Christ, a little warning next time?”

“Ideally, there will not _be_ a next time,” Bane replies, mild, as he threads the needle.

John grimaces at him. Grimaces harder at the first push of the needle, at the feeling of his flesh being tugged and knitted back together. He fixes his attention on the wall at first, counts the bricks in triple-time to the pace of Bane’s methodical stitching. After a minute, however, his curiosity gets the better of him.

John peers back, inspecting Bane’s handiwork as best he can without moving his shoulder. The stitches are neat, regular - far better than the haphazard patch-up jobs that John has sometimes performed on himself. But even more surprising is the gentleness with which Bane cradles John’s arm, the care with which he performs each stitch. It’s light years away from the way Bane usually touches him.

“Where’d you learn to do this?” John asks. His voice comes out hushed without him intending to.

“Many places. Wherever it was necessary.”

“War zones,” John concludes. “Wars that you started.”

Bane glances at him, pale eyes unreadable, then turns his attention back to John’s shoulder. “They’d have started with or without me, sooner or later. But yes, in war zones. Amongst other places.”

John’s lip curls. He’s tempted to leave the conversation (such as it is) there, but something - the instinct that drives his detective work - compels him to keep talking. “Who was your first patient?”

There’s a long, long silence. Then: “Someone dear to me,” Bane murmurs.

John tilts his head, but Bane’s head is bowed. The streetlight overhead casts deep shadows across his face.

“Let me guess,” John says. “Miranda Tate?” It’s not really a guess, or even a question, for all that he phrases it as one.

“Miranda Tate,” Bane huffs. “That was not her name.”

“What was, then?”

“Talia,” Bane says - voice soft and tender - after another silence. “Talia al Ghul.”

 _Al Ghul_. Now that’s a name John knows, albeit only in the abstract. Bruce Wayne had compiled extensive files on every one of his adversaries.

“Any relation to Ra’s al Ghul?”

“She was his daughter. And his rightful heir.”

His _daughter_? “Jesus,” John says, distantly horrified. “You guys have had it in for Gotham for ages, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Bane says, with his typical lack of remorse.

“...and now you’re helping me.”

“Yes.”

“...you don’t see a little conflict of interest there?”

“No.”

John lets out an explosive breath. “Fucking— _why_ are you helping me?”

Bane raises an eyebrow. “I thought you had already ascertained my motives.” He tilts his head, faux-musing. “As I recall, you attributed it to my obsessive desire for control, and a not insignificant amount of megalomania.” He gets to his feet, slings his bag over his shoulder, and turns away, instantly dismissing John from his attention.

Thrown by the abruptness, John stumbles to his feet without thinking. He reaches out with his good arm, grabs Bane by the shoulder. Has to stretch right up onto his toes to do it.

Bane goes eerily still.

John holds his breath. He half-expects Bane to reach up and snap his fingers, although Bane has never exhibited any uncontrolled bursts of rage - not since that first night, anyway. But Bane doesn’t move.

“I—” John says, then breaks off, floundering. He clears his throat. Tries again. “Just... thanks, I guess. For patching me up.”

Bane says nothing. He simply stands there, staring down at John’s hand, then at his own shoulder when John awkwardly pulls his hand away.

“See you at tomorrow’s patrol?” John prompts. Or not see him, since Bane has a near-supernatural ability to conceal himself, despite his height and breadth.

It feels like an age before Bane meets John’s eyes. And when he does, his gaze pierces John, practically passes through him.

John opens his mouth; starts to ask Bane what - or _who_ \- he sees. He shuts his mouth at the last second. He’s grateful to Bane for stitching him up, sure, but that’s as far as it goes. That’s as far as John is willing to let it go.

John steps back. He nods at Bane, just once, then turns around, and walks away. It isn’t until he reaches the mouth of the alley that he glances back.

Bane is still standing there, alone.

 

* * *

 

**0**

 

Seven weeks after Bane stitches him up, John almost kills a man.

Not intentionally. Never intentionally - it will never be intentionally as long as John is still... well, himself. But he almost kills a man, nevertheless, and when it comes to things like life and death, intentions can only go so far.

It happens in a near instant, in the space between one thought and the next. One second, John's struggling with Maguire, arms up defensively as Maguire's knife inches toward his eye. The next, he's braced over Maguire as Maguire struggles for breath, glassy-eyed, fingers describing useless shapes in the air.

Shaky, confused, John only realises what's happened - what he's _done_ \- when Maguire grasps John's forearm, right over the bracer. John grabs his hand instinctively, and his fingers slip over the empty slots where the batarangs would ( _should_ ) be. A cold emptiness opens up within him, chilling his innards and numbing his limbs.

 _Not again,_ John thinks, horrified despair beginning to edge out the numbness. _Not again, not again, not again—_

His hands hover over Maguire’s torso, uncertain; he doesn’t to touch the metal protruding from Maguire’s chest, his abdomen. The scent of blood hangs in the air, thick and overwhelmingly metallic, and the bile rises in John's throat. He calls for an ambulance, fingers trembling as he presses the keys.

(He'd laughed when he discovering the cell phone tucked in a utility belt pouch, amused that something so mundane was sitting alongside the rest of the high tech gadgetry.

Now, he's simply grateful for Bruce Wayne's foresight and practicality.)

He relays the location in distant, stunned tones, but even before he hangs up, there’s a voice in him that’s howling, shrieking that it’s too late.There’s so much - _too_ much - blood. Maguire will bleed out before the ambulance arrives.

That’ll be three lives on his conscience, John thinks.

And then he thinks: _Bane._

“Bane,” John croaks. Then, louder: “Bane.”

His only answer is the echo of his own voice, bouncing hollowly off metal walls. But Bane _has_ to be somewhere near by. He always is, whether John wants him to be or not.

John tries again. “ _Bane._ ”

There’s a metallic, grinding noise - a long-rusted door or a hatch being shunted open - and then Bane is there, appearing at John’s side like a thrice-summoned demon.

John stares up at him, his mouth sandpaper-dry as he says: “Help me.”

Bane tilts his head, then nods. He bends down and grasps John by the arms, hauls him upward, and it takes John several long seconds to realise what Bane intends.

“What— _no._ ” John squirms out of Bane’s grip and drops to his knees beside Maguire again. “I didn’t mean help me get away, I meant help me help _him_.”

Bane crouches down beside him. His eyes sweep over Maguire’s wounds, taking in the spasmodic up-down motion of his chest. “His injuries are severe,” he says. “It would be a greater mercy to end his life quickly.”

John hunches over Maguire protectively. The irony of the action is not lost on him. “That is _not_ an option.”

“You can do nothing for him,” Bane replies. His tone is clipped, like he has only the barest patience for what he thinks of as John’s foolishness. “Come.” He reaches for John’s shoulder again.

John twists away. “I’m not fucking leaving. Not yet. So you can either fucking help me or you can _leave,_ ” he snarls, like he hadn’t been the one to call for Bane, like he hadn’t practically screamed for him.

Bane’s eyes narrow.

John rises up slightly, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to fight Bane off should he move against Maguire, or make another move to grab John and haul him away—

And then Bane pushes himself to his feet, walks away without a backward glance.

John's heart slams into his ribs, horror choking him. He's only just begun to kick himself for the overt hostility, however, when Bane returns - _thank fucking God_ \- with his bag of medical supplies. He kneels down on the other side of Maguire, gestures for John to do the same

They work in near-silence. Bane only speaks when he’s directing John to fetch something from his kit or directing John to place his hands here, put pressure there, although he casts not-quite glares at John throughout. John, for his part, says nothing; he’ll put up with all the glares in the world if Bane can ensure he doesn’t have another death on his conscience.

Maguire is still and pale beneath them, the spasmodic breathing settling into shallow breaths with long pauses in between. John has no idea if that’s good or bad. Can’t even tell if what they’re doing is helping in anyway, but Maguire hasn’t stopped breathing, isn’t dead, so...

Finally, Bane leans back. He tilts his head to the side, as if listening to something. John instinctively strains his ears to listen as well.

Sirens. Faint, but growing louder. Closer.

Bane rises and grasps John by the shoulder again, saying, “You have done all that you can for him,” he says, even though John hadn’t done anything beyond follow Bane’s directions. He tugs at John’s shoulder.

This time, John doesn’t resist when Bane pulls him away.

 

* * *

 

Bane takes the driver’s seat and drives unerringly in the direction of the Batcave, without consulting John once.

John would laugh if he had the energy. Of course Bane figured out where the cave was. _Of course_. Every time John thinks he has Bane’s measure, it turns out he’d been underestimating him.

“How long have you known where this place was?” John asks without preamble, after they’ve burst through the waterfall and come to a stop at the water’s edge.

Bane kills the engine. “Several weeks now.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bane looks at him like he’s a moron. “It would have only raised your ire and made you suspicious,” he says. _More so than you already are,_ his look seems to say. “I have no particular desire to engage in pointless conflict.”

“You were trying to keep the peace?” John asks. “ _You?_ ” It comes out more incredulous than scornful, but he still feels a belated sting of contrition when Bane raises an eyebrow. Bane doesn’t seem offended, but John still feels weirdly compelled to make nice somehow. “Thanks for what you did back there,” he says finally, as he fumbles with the door handle and pops it open. “At the warehouse, with Maguire.” He slides out of the tumbler and heads for the platform that houses the supercomputer Wayne built.

Bane follows him out. “I still maintain it would have been a greater mercy to end his life,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” John directs a sharp look at Bane over his shoulder. “Well, I still maintain that wasn’t an option.”

“Gotham is a city of extremes. You can only be so effective if you continue to use half-measures.”

“Half-measures?” John repeats, snorting. “Only you would call leaving deadly force as a last resort a half-measure.”

“There is something to be said for dealing with one’s enemies decisively and thoroughly.”

“You can deal with your enemies decisively and thoroughly without killing them,” John shoots back, as he starts stripping out of his armour. “You can hand them over to the cops, for one thing.”

“Such faith in your city’s law enforcement,” Bane says, leaning against the platform railing. “And yet you left the police force to do… this.” He gestures at John’s suit - now an ungainly heap on the floor - and the cave at large.

“Yeah, I did,” John says. He throws himself down into the lone computer chair. “And you left your terrorist ideology behind to be my nightly backup and sometimes nursemaid. Clearly we’re men of conviction.”

Bane doesn’t flare up, like John half-expects, and instead huffs out a small, dry laugh. “I have not left my ideology behind, anymore than you’ve lost your faith in the law. But we are, perhaps, no longer the most fitting champions for our respective doctrines.”

John processes that as best as he can, through the gathering fog of exhaustion. “That’s like the closest I’m gonna get to hearing you say you were wrong to try blow up Gotham, isn’t it?” he says finally.

“The League was not wrong,” Bane replies immediately. “We have always sat in judgement of the world, apart and impartial. Before the occupation, we judged Gotham to be corrupt, tainted beyond saving.”

“But?” John prompts, because there’s obviously a _but_ coming.

“But now things are in flux,” Bane says, matter-of-fact. “Now there is a possibility - however slight - that Gotham may excise its corruption on its own.”

“You’re singing a different tune all of a sudden,” John says. “What changed?”

“It has not been sudden at all,” Bane says. “But as for what changed—” he shrugs. “You did.”

John blinks, surprised. He isn’t at all sure how he should respond to that.

Well— when in doubt, aim for light.

“You saying I made you see the light?” John asks, leaning back in his seat. “Because if you are, then it still sounds to me like you’re admitting you were wrong.”

Bane snorts, not bothering to reply, and one corner of John’s mouth lifts. It should feel weird - _wrong_ \- joking like this with _Bane_ of all people. But John is punch-drunk, riding the giddiness of pure exhaustion, too tired to be angry or defensive of suspicious. And besides—

 _Desperate times make for strange bedfellows,_ Father Reilly had said to John once, during the occupation. He’d been referring to the fact that gang members were banding together with regular citizens, protecting one another.

But these are still desperate times, and Bane is the only ally John has in the field.

John picks up his mask from the jumble of armour by his feet, and turns it over and over in his hands, deliberating. He looks up at Bane. “You know anything about electronics?”

“Some,” Bane replies. “It was not my main field of expertise, but I know enough.”

John nods slowly. “The night vision is on the fritz,” he says. “I was going to take it to Fox, but he’s out of the country, so—” he takes a deep breath, and holds the mask up. "You think you can take a look at it?”

 _I’m making an effort to trust you,_ he doesn’t say. _Don’t make me regret it._

Bane seems to get the message all the same, though. He nods minutely, and holds his hand out. After a brief, fleeting hesitation, John places the mask carefully in Bane’s hand.

 _This will do,_ John thinks, as he pulls his hand away. For now, this will do.


End file.
